I sat picking the little chips of wood out the wallpaper. Got a splinter under the nail of my index finger and now it’s all gone red and sore. Still, I managed to pick enough off to make the shape of a face and a pair of glasses. Tomorrow I’ll put the nose and mouth in. It’s a nervous thing. It’s what I do whilst waiting to have my skull bashed in.
At just gone twelve I phoned Verity. She answered in her happy singing northern accent. She always sounds like she can only ever receive good news. I disguised my voice the best I could :
“Hiya, you deserve everything your conscience brings you... you Fucking Shitfly!” Then I just hung there listening. Waiting for the phone to go dead. It never did.
“Tristram, is that you? If it isn’t there’s someone in your flat making twisted telephone calls to me!”
(Shit! Can’t I do anything without getting caught.) “Errr, Yeah it’s me... YOU FUCKING SHITFLY!” I screamed. And then as sweet and as predictable as she is, Verity said the words I’d been wanting to hear. “I think this means you need help. I’m coming over.”
And that’s just it. That was my point. Anyone who says such things does need help. Real intense psychotherapy type help. John needs help. That’s so obvious now.